


snow & stone

by sternfleck



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Autumn, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hair-pulling, Kissing, M/M, Married Life, Oral Sex, Snow, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Walks In The Woods, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternfleck/pseuds/sternfleck
Summary: “A picnic,” Ben had said. “In the forest. With the red and orange leaves.”“It will be far too cold for a picnic,” Armitage had protested. But Ben had only pulled him close in the train seat, arm over his shoulder, to illustrate his distinct prowess at keeping Armitage warm.Nature, however, gave Armitage the last word. On Saturday morning, the morning of Armitage’s birthday, they’d awakened in their upstate rental house to a silence deeper than the ordinary hush of the autumn forest. It was the silence of snow—the first of the year.-Husbands Ben and Armitage leave their flat in the city for a weekend upstate, to see the autumn leaves and to celebrate Armitage's birthday.A fill for the Huxloween 2020 prompt: "Autumn Colours."
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 11
Kudos: 146
Collections: Huxloween 2020





	snow & stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surrenderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderer/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Снег и камень](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054079) by [Izverg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izverg/pseuds/Izverg), [WTF Kylo and Hux 2021 (Our_Own_Star_Wars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Our_Own_Star_Wars/pseuds/WTF%20Kylo%20and%20Hux%202021)
  * Inspired by [salt air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814932) by [surrenderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderer/pseuds/surrenderer). 



> Salt-verse leaves the seashore and enters a snowy autumn forest.
> 
> For those who are new to this informal series of soft grown-up BenArmie stories, it all started with [surrenderer's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderer/pseuds/surrenderer) fic [salt air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814932/chapters/62708974). Subsequent works include my [kelp & salt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26125756), [salt & silk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684566), and [ink & salt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806291).
> 
> As usual, I have no real justification for this beyond self-indulgence. I wanted to write an autumn holiday fic, and surrenderer's birthday (the 21st; happy birthday!) gave me a good reason to see how these two soft boys would choose to celebrate a birthday in this season of bright leaves and fresh snow.

It’s not important, Armitage tried to insist. It’s another year, another cycle of the Earth around the Sun. Ageing is inevitable. Why celebrate?

But Ben, as usual, has his own ideas about what celebrations are required on these occasions. He went into detail about what Armitage _deserves_ , as though a birthday is a time to go soft on oneself with cakes and gifts and breakfast in bed. Armitage was answering emails in his favourite armchair at the time—trust Ben to interrupt his work with indulgent ideas of how to spend the weekend ahead—and didn’t even try to hide his surprise when Ben knelt and began to kiss his hands, then his thighs, murmuring all the while about what he’d prefer to do for Armitage’s birthday. 

It didn’t turn out the way Ben planned. They’d caught the train out of the city on Friday afternoon, when the late autumn day meant it was already dark outside. Along with their bags and Millicent’s carrier, Ben had insisted on bringing a basket he’d picked up at the bakery down the street, filled with cheese, meat, fruit, crusty bread, and a bottle of cider.

“A picnic,” he’d said. “In the forest. With the red and orange leaves.”

“It will be far too cold for a picnic,” Armitage had protested. But Ben had only pulled him close in the train seat, arm over his shoulder, to illustrate his distinct prowess at keeping Armitage warm.

Nature, however, gave Armitage the last word. On Saturday morning, the morning of Armitage’s birthday, they’d awakened in their upstate rental house to a silence deeper than the ordinary hush of the autumn forest. It was the silence of snow—the first of the year.

In their house, the main room has a wall of windows, which faces a stream that's just beginning to freeze at the edges. Armitage followed Ben to the window to stare out at the drifts of white that fell in the night.

“We could still go for a walk for your birthday. Have the picnic inside, tonight. You want to?” Ben asked, doing that thing with his face that would be infuriating on anyone else, where he makes his eyes shiny and plaintive and sticks out his lip.

“A puppy,” Armitage had pronounced, cuffing Ben’s nose gently with the back of a finger. “That’s what you are. Needing to be taken for walks and petted and attended to constantly.”

Ben’s lower lip had stuck out farther at this, but he’d smiled when Armitage raised his hand to his dark hair and ruffled it. And, as usual, Ben had gotten his way.

-

It’s cold in the forest, as Armitage knew it would be. He’s dressed for autumn, not winter, and even Ben’s hand around his wrist can’t warm him up entirely. But the leaves here are still bright orange and red, save for the occasional evergreen, and there’s something cheerful about the scene.

Mostly, it cheers him to see how excited Ben gets about snow. There’s no reason for it—Ben has been around snow for most winters of his life, and ought to be well accustomed to it by now. But Ben is excitable. He keeps picking up fallen leaves for Hux, shaking snowflakes away from them, as though Hux would want to hold a wet leaf in his hand, when he’s already colder than he’d like to be on his birthday.

“It’s orange.” Ben holds a large and showy leaf up to Hux’s head. “Like—”

“Don’t,” Armitage interrupts. He deals with enough of this every autumn, what with Halloween’s black and orange decorations. Ben makes comparisons, putting black things next to orange things, as though their hair colours have any bearing on the nature of their relationship to one another.

Ben’s face falls, so Armitage relents, and kisses him. “You know I’m much more fond of you than a leaf could ever be,” he says after, with his hand on Ben’s broad back to pull him close.

They stand like that for a long moment, arms around each other, breath mingling in the space between them, keeping their faces warm. But it’s too cold to stand still for long, and so they walk on, down the snow-covered path, deeper into the forest.

Further into the valley, the deciduous trees give way to dark evergreens. Occasional outcroppings of rock can be seen through the trees, standing out like platforms crowned with snow.

“There’s an overlook ahead,” Ben informs him. “It was in the guidebook.”

“I suppose you think this is romantic.” Armitage shivers, and cuddles closer to Ben.

Ben shrugs, dips his head to brush warm lips across Armitage’s cheek. “It’s an adventure, at least.”

It’s an unpleasantly far walk to the overlook on such a cold day, but Ben insists.

“I’ll carry you if you get tired,” he offers, ignoring Armitage’s sour expression. “Piggyback ride.”

“Absolutely not. Being on your arm is sufficient support.”

Ben holds him tighter at this admission, snaking an arm around Armitage’s waist. _Someone might see,_ Armitage wants to protest...but, after all, this is a nature preserve in the country, on a day when most sensible people are brewing strong tea and sitting by the fire. A voyeur’s opinion of their displays of affection is low on the list of concerns. Besides, it’s only Armitage’s old-fashioned embarrassment that keeps him reserved about public intimacy, and Ben, by his shameless existence, has done a great deal to break Armitage of this habit. 

At last, through the trees, a patch of white sky becomes visible, then another, until the forest relents to reveal a wide span of treeless, snow-dusted rock jutting out over the valley. 

It’s not a familiar landscape. This is their first time to have a holiday in this area, and Armitage, growing up in London, rarely had occasion to look out over a snowy forest. Still, there’s something familiar about the scene, with its dark fir trees and boulders, and the expanse of white below the rock’s stagelike precipice. Something familiar about Ben standing beside him, like this is a memory he’s had before.

Ben lets go of his arm, steps ahead of him out onto the rock. “Careful,” Armitage calls, thinking of slick ice or loose stones.

“You come too,” is Ben’s answer, with a jagged grin and a beckoning wave. As if it’s sensible for them both to take on the needless risk of injury, when they’re barely even dressed for the cold.

Still, because Ben is his husband and smiles so handsomely and—most of all—is warm, Armitage picks his way across the expanse of stone towards him, surprised to find it easy to traverse.

With his bare hands, Ben is packing a snowball, crushing it smaller and smaller until his palms are red with cold. He tosses it off the ledge into the valley, and when it lands, it drives a tunnel down into the snow.

Armitage, for his part, is content to enjoy the view. There’s something sublime about the grandeur of the scene. It’s too big and cold and mountainous to be beautiful, exactly. Too fearsome. Armitage glances at Ben, with his clumsy features and hunched posture, then back at the line of grey mountains extending into the distance.

“I feel almost as if I ought to give a speech,” Armitage comments. “This is a bit like a stage, isn’t it?”

Ben gazes at him. He has a calm expression, which is rare—Ben is usually stormy, awestruck, or caught up in childish excitement.

“You’re the one with a birthday,” Ben points out. “I should give a speech for you. Singing your praises.”

Armitage scoffs, but Ben already has his shoulders back, standing up straighter and inhaling a deep lungful of the mountain air.

“To all assembled trees and forest entities, today is Armitage Hux’s birthday. He is my husband. He’s the only man I would ever want to spend the rest of my life with. He’s a brilliant engineer and strategist. His accomplishments are surpassed only by his ambition. The day he was born was the best day of my life, only I didn’t know it, because I hadn’t been born yet.”

Ben pauses for breath, and in the silence Hux snorts, prompting Ben to look at him. He’s blushing; he can feel it on his cheeks even with the breeze. Ben’s eyes flicker over his embarrassed features, and his mouth turns up in a wicked smirk.

“He’s also incredible in bed,” he adds, voice quieter, but not by much. Not nearly quiet enough. Hux moves to slap his hand over Ben’s mouth, but Ben leans away. “He’s a fantastic kisser. He has impressive taste in lingerie. Oh, and his thighs are really soft. They’re SO SOFT.”

He yells the last two words over the snow-dusted valley, and Armitage winces as a few birds take flight far below, spiralling up into the white sky.

Armitage glances around, peering over his shoulder at the forest, as though someone might appear along the path at any moment. But there’s no one there. If anyone was in earshot, Ben’s speech has surely warned them away.

His eye lands on the thick drift of snow at the edge of the rock. It would be appropriate to hit Ben with a snowball right now, as a useful lesson. But Armitage has no gloves. Not expecting snow, they both left their gloves at home in the city. And even revenge isn’t worth getting his hands dirty—or cold.

Armitage settles for rolling his eyes, even as he takes hold of Ben’s warm hand.

“Let’s get back to where it’s not _freezing_ , before you end up entirely delirious with cold, you beastly creature.” 

Ben squeezes his hand. When he looks at Armitage, his eyes shine with such adoration that Armitage can’t bear to walk away just yet. Instead, he lifts his mouth to kiss the tip of Ben’s nose.

“Silly boy,” he whispers, even as Ben turns his face to kiss him softly on the mouth.

After a long, delicious moment of kiss after kiss, Armitage, for the first time in the past hour, is well and truly warm down to his core.

-

By the time they’re back inside, Armitage is chilled to the bone again, and once more in need of hot tea. Ben, without being told, heads for the kettle as soon as he’s stripped off his tall boots and quilted jacket. He’s gotten too cold as well, which is unusual—there’s a charming red flush on the tip of his nose and the tops of his ears.

Armitage, for his part, heads to the house’s main room, to attempt to get a fire going. The glassed-in fireplace runs on fossil fuel, not wood, and it’s simple enough to warm the room by dialling the flame higher with the knob on the hearth.

There are several chairs in the room, and a sofa, long and grey. Armitage hears a Benlike sound behind him, and straightens and turns, expecting to find Ben on the sofa with their cups of tea. But the tea is in its pot on the nearest end table, and Ben is on his knees next to the dark green armchair closest to the fire. 

“Sit here,” he says, with pleading eyes, stroking the chair’s velvety seat.

Armitage, because Ben is his husband, knows what Ben wants. So he does sit, settling with his legs half-curled under him in the chair, to let Ben rest his head in his lap.

“There’s a good boy,” Armitage whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the hiss of the fire. “Keeping me warm. Even if you do get us into trouble.”

“I didn’t get us in trouble,” Ben points out, nuzzling into Armitage’s hand in his hair. “We had a walk. It was great. Hey, do you want your presents now, or later?”

“I’d like my tea.” But Armitage contradicts himself by refusing to let go of Ben’s hair, even when Ben stretches towards the end table to pour a cup. “There’s no hurry,” he adds, stroking Ben’s pouting lower lip. His hands are almost warm now, especially when Ben flicks out his tongue to lap at his thumb.

It’s a lewd gesture, the meaning clear, but Ben’s eyes are so full of care that there’s a sweetness to it, too. Armitage shifts in the chair and slides down it, letting Ben part his thighs.

“We have all night,” Armitage reminds him. “And the next two days. There’s no need to get ahead of ourselves.”

“You were cold.” Ben already has his hands on the button of Armitage’s trousers, wasting no time. “I could feel how cold you were. Let me warm you up.”

This is true enough. Ben is terribly persuasive when he wants to be, and he usually does have something he wants to persuade Armitage of.

So Armitage tips his head back against green velvet, and relaxes under Ben’s hands, and lets the warmth of Ben’s mouth sink into him. He lets Ben touch him and kiss him and swallow him down, and after, when Ben has cleaned him with his mouth and tucked him away again, Armitage lets Ben rest his head in his lap again.

His rough, lovely features are arranged in their most peaceful expression, and Ben practically purrs for him when Armitage runs a hand through his hair.

“Your thighs _are_ soft, you know,” Ben points out, squeezing one of them. 

Armitage frowns. “I’m aware. You’ve told me enough times. That’s insufficient reason to shout the information off a mountainside, for heaven’s sake.”

“It was a birthday speech.” Ben turns his head to kiss the thigh he’s not stroking. “You always say I should be more active in stating my goals and desires.”

“What does the softness of my thighs have to do with goal-setting?”

When Ben’s eyebrow quirks up and his jagged teeth show in a smile, Armitage realises too late this question’s obvious answer.

“You said yourself. We have all night. I’ll show you my desires.” Ben pauses. The firelight gleams in his eyes, red as the leaves of the trees in the forest. “Unless you’d prefer I give another speech.”

“If you give one more speech, I’ll put a snowball right in your face. Total war. No terms, no surrender.”

Even as he makes his threat, Armitage stretches his wrists along the arms of the chair, getting more comfortable. His merciless words have a cosy, sleepy tone.

Ben widens his eyes in mock horror. “You know what they say about big hands,” he murmurs, stroking Armitage’s thigh again. “They make the biggest snowballs. I’m a formidable adversary.”

“I’m aware,” Armitage says, tangling his hand again in Ben’s hair and giving it a gentle tug, just to see Ben’s eyes fall shut with pleasure. “I’d hate to make an enemy of you, my love.”

Right now, nothing seems less possible than to ever be enemies with sweet Ben, his husband. Even a snowball fight seems unlikely. It would only result in cold noses, cold hands, and more and more kisses to warm them up again.

Armitage stretches again, turning to rest his head on the chair’s winged velvet back. He’s warm at last, and in a state of complete contentment.

Out of the room’s wide windows, the snow now seems very far away. It might as well be a landscape from a distant planet, or a previous life.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who think along these lines, there's no deeper astrological meaning to my choice to give Armitage an autumn birthday. I just felt like it.
> 
> You can follow me, if you choose, on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sternfleck) and [tumblr](https://sternfleck.tumblr.com/).


End file.
